Later that night, Roshni and I are sitting on a small sofa in the theater lobby with two glasses of white wine, biding our time during intermission. We’re only halfway through the show, but I’m already a groupie. This play is so good that it makes me mad. I’m enjoying every blissful second while simultaneously cursing my own mediocrity for not writing it myself. Silent, festering dissatisfaction is the highest form of praise among writers.
Roshni takes a sip of her wine and sits back with a sigh. “I still can’t believe that I’m here. Seriously, how did this happen?”
“I keep asking myself the same thing. This is far and away the best perk I’ve experienced since working for Juliette.”
“When my mom pitched the idea for this summer job, I seriously thought I would be sitting in a corner and creeping you guys out as I stared at you and tried to find something to do. I never thought I’d be in London, helping out with a fantastic production and going to shows like this.”
“You know, I’ve somehow never even met your mom. I’ve spoken to her on the phone a bunch of times to set up appointments or lunches with her and Juliette, but I’ve never seen her in person. She seems super nice, though. Very dignified phone voice.”
Roshni nods and lifts her glass. “She does have a dignified phone voice. Fingers crossed I somehow inherit it someday.”
I take a sip of my own wine and twist to face her more fully on the couch. “What were your parents like when you were little?”
A relaxed smile crosses her face. “They were awesome. Super hardworking, but they always made time for me and my brother. My parents came to the US after they got married but before I was born. They’re from Gujarat, which is a state in India. They were both the first in their family to come over, but they had a huge friend group that was here, so every weekend we would get together with like, eleven other families, and it felt like a constant party. We would rotate whose house we went to each weekend, so there were always places to go and things to do. It was a lot of fun.”
I listen to Roshni’s words and can’t deny the longing I feel for a childhood like that. Yes, I got to participate in as much theater as was available to me, but other than that, it was me and my dad in our quiet house. Or me with a babysitter when my dad was at work.
“That sounds amazing,” I muse, still imagining it all.
“It was. I hope I’m half as good of a parent someday.”
“I’m sure you will be.”
“We’ll see. Nick has to propose first, and even then, I’m sure we’ll want to be married for a couple of years before we start trying for a baby.”
“Yeah, you guys definitely don’t have to rush on that,” I tell her. “And who knows, maybe down the line you won’t even want to have kids.”
“What? Of course I want kids.” She looks at me with that confused disorientation I so often receive after saying something along those lines.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“I just know,” she answers simply. Because for so many people, itisthat simple. It’s an unfaltering notion deep in their gut. A landmark knowledge they can always be sure of. It makes me wish that I knew with such certainty, too.
Wanting to change the subject, I decide to go out on a bit of a limb. “So, I have some news,” I find myself saying.
She takes a sip of her wine, and her eyebrows shift up a bit. “Color me intrigued. Do tell.”
“Once we get back to New York, there’s a solid possibility that I’m quitting.”
Roshni nearly chokes on her wine then. “What?” she yells. “Tell me everything immediately!”
And I do just that, telling her all about the West Lane Theater Company and Professor Jack, and how my possible departure played a part in agreeing to Juliette’s crazy dating scheme.
“Well, I think this new job sounds exciting as hell and absolutely amazing. Juliette should be nothing but happy for you, but given her track record, that’s a big question mark.”
“Quite the question mark,” I agree.
Just then, the lights flicker, letting us know that the second half of the play is about to begin. Roshni lets out a little shriek, and I do the same on the inside. “So much excitement in one night,” she says as we both stand up. “By the way, did you look at the price on our ticket stubs? I didn’t even realize that shows could be so expensive.”
“Being trendy doesn’t come cheap, my dear.”
“Obviously not. I’m going to Instagram the crap out of this.” She pulls out her phone for a selfie, and she and I pose side by side, smiling and lifting our wineglasses. A second later, she applies just the right filter to make us look like the influencers we definitely are not as we make our way back to our seats.
“This really is the best night ever,” she continues on. “I’m not going to say I’m glad that Juliette got a headache and it was just you and me at the play, but I’m also not going to say that I’m not happy Juliette got a headache and it was just you and me at the play.”
“And you’ve officially entered the cutthroat world of theater. Another lamb becomes a lion.”
“Do all drama people talk like you?”
